Diamond and Steel
by Songs for a Solstice
Summary: After his explusion, Karofsky, high on crystal meth, finds and rapes Kurt.  In the aftermath, it's up to Blaine to teach Kurt the difference between diamond and steel - between hard stubbornness, and true courage. Klaine, AU Post-Burt's wedding
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Steel and Diamond

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee, which is why it's actually funny.

**Pairing:** Blaine/Kurt

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Rape, non-explicit mentions of/references to sex, profanity, emotional trauma, drug abuse, lethal illness (but **no major character deaths**)

**Spoilers: **AU from just after Burt and Carole's wedding in _Furt _- Karofsky doesn't return, for starters

**Summary: **In a darker turn of events, Karofsky rapes Kurt while under the influence of crystal meth - obtained from an unclean, used needle. As events unfold, meaning repercussions that Kurt struggles to deal with, it's up to Blaine to teach Kurt the difference between diamond and steel - between hard stubbornness, and true courage.

**Other: **The second sequence in this is a semi-dream/memory, which is why it's written like that - sensory/flash thought exploration. It's a bit experimental, but I hope it works!

**Thanks for reading, and if you have time, please do leave a review xx**

* * *

><p>"Kurt? Kurt? Oh God, Kurt, <em>where are you<em>?"

He stirs for a moment, because is that his father's voice?

But then the voice dims, footsteps passing the room as though it's not there.

Something's wrong, he knows. He can hear it in his father's voice, and maybe that's his ringtone but it's so far away and his head hurts and everything hurts and he's so fucking tired…

And then darkness takes him again, and he sleeps.

And he dreams

And he _remembers_.

* * *

><p><em>Hey, Hummel.<em>

_What – what the fuck are you doing here, Karofsky? You're not allowed on school grounds anymore, remember?_

_(Footsteps going forwards, footsteps sliding backwards)_

_(Indomitable pressure of electrical impulses to the brain)_

_(Instinct)_

_(Override – courage-stupidity-whyamIdoingthis? Two heads think same thing but one can't care)_

_Karofsky, (calm, calm, keep calm) get away from me. _

_Why should I? _

_(Hands shoulders pressed wall hurts bones, he should eat more but then this would be harder and what why am I doing this why don't I just run and who is thinking this pretty boy or balding oaf)_

_Get away from me, Karofsky. I swear, I'll scream._

_(No one's coming no one's here too late why did I come back Finn's sheet music locker room not worth this how could I know)_

_What, Hummel, you think I'm stupid or something? We both know there's no one around. And if there was, it's not like anyone would _care_._

_(Head hurts head hurts, something in back of mind saying something illegal hurting don't hurt him Mum will cry again don't give a fuck why is he so pretty? His fault not mine fucking tempting fag making me a fag )_

_What are you _doing_, Karof-mmph!_

_(Lips rough memories stench of alcohol something else something strong disgusting heavy friction hurts teeth biting tongue hands push him away holding my hands can't get them away why so strong not fair not fair)_

_You're so pretty, Hummel, you know that? Fucking girl fairy, skin's so smooth, bet you never have to shave or anything. Sure you aren't a girl?_

_Don't-please, Karofsky, don't do this-_

_(Other hand buttons jeans, these cost a bloody fortune Dad's going to kill me)_

_(If he doesn't first)_

_Knees, Hummel._

_Karofsky, please, I won't say anything I promise I promise just don't please_

_(Pressure shoulders weak knees can't stand weight of stupid fucking jock why not fair thought I was safe finally _why_ no, no, no)_

_Call me Dave, baby._

_(I hate you I hate you I hate you)_

_Gonna hear you scream it when I fuck you, _Kurt_. Mmm, that's right…_

_(Hand calluses _down there _why can't be happening can't be meant to be with someone I love someone I want this isn't happening where are you Blaine save me someone save me isn't going to happen why, why _why?_)_

_(Push out stumble adrenaline rush or something strong for his size, this fag)_

_Don't think you're getting away that fucking easily, Hummel!_

_(Ankle pain hurts arm hurting fall bag phone need speed dial must remember _if I get out alive _bag thrown please don't break, iPod)_

_Now, suck it like the fucking girl faggot you are, babe._

_(Don't call me that don't dirty Neanderthal never going to win)_

_How dare you fucking _spit _on me, you bitch!_

_(Pain.)_

_(More pain.)_

_(Cold.)_

_Please don't_

_(Too late for prayers and usel- oh God. Oh God.)_

_(Dad, I love you.)_

_(Pain.)_

* * *

><p>The first thing Kurt registers, when he regains consciousness and sits up, is that he can't feel his arm.<p>

He looks down.

It's still there.

"Alright," he says.

His voice doesn't waver, and he's sort of aware that it's shock more than anything (but he's grateful to himself, all the same.)

He swallows.

"I've been raped."

He's got two arms and two legs. When he stands and walks to the mirror, he sees that he's also got two eyes, and skin.

Nice skin.

A nose.

Hair.

His hair is a mess, and his nose is bloodied and probably broken. One of his eyes is blackened, and the other one sits just over a purpling bruise on his cheek. He can feel the fracture in his left ankle, like what's happened (_rape, rape's what's happened, you're fine and you have to face it_) has given him some superhuman awareness of himself, and his arms are covered in scratches and bruised and he's fairly sure his left arm is broken and you'd think for the sake of symmetry it'd be his right arm instead because otherwise that's honestly just lopsided and you'd think there was some sort of justice in the world that would prevent this kind of thing from-

Kurt barely makes it to the sink in time to vomit.

* * *

><p>Dave sits in the police station, on a hard-backed wooden chair. The policewoman assigned to keep an eye on him, a young blonde chick who's probably just started working because she looks like she's barely older than Dave, keeps glancing at him warily, as though he's going to do something weird like explode or shoot fire or something fucked-up like that.<p>

She's the sort of girl Dave likes, the type he finds attractive – skinny and all fine-featured or whatever, subtle curves and long limbs-

_Like Kurt_.

His nails dig into his wrist, right over a blue vein thing that he thinks is called an artery.

For a moment, Dave wishes he didn't have that stupid habit of biting his nails, like Mum was always telling him not to do, because then maybe if they were long enough, he'd be able to slice into his skin like those emo freaks do, and end it, and stop thinking that name when he fucking knows that he's got no fucking right to.

Not anymore.

* * *

><p>After he's watched the remnants of his vomit spiral down the sink, after he's rinsed out his mouth a thousand hundred million times till the sour, bitter, disgusting taste of digested food has left his mouth (though another sour, bitter taste lingers no matter how many times he tries), he looks up at the mirror.<p>

"Alright."

The word is sucked into the dead silence, but he sees his lips form it, and for a split second, he hears the echoes in the emptiness.

He's about to reach into his pocked for his phone, till he realises that he doesn't have his jeans on anymore.

Or his coat.

A wave of panic rises up within him (_never touching them again, never, never, never_) till he remembers that it's in his bag.

Turning away from his reflection, Kurt sees it, thrown under a bench by Ka-

_Him_.

"No."

That word does waver – it trembles like Rachel's fucking shit vibrato when she tries and fails to sing opera, like someone on a roller-coaster trying to sing the last note of _Don't Rain on My Parade_.

_Karofsky. Not _'him'_._

"Karofsky." That's better. Sort of.

He thinks it's better, but his stomach doesn't seem to agree.

But he continues, anyway, whispering "David Karofsky" as loudly and as confidently as a whisper can manage. Because he has to do this, has to realise that this is how it is, or like with Mum it'll never go away, not really.

_That can't happen no, no, no, I just want to forget-_

Kurt shakes his head, side to side, slowly then faster, more violently, till there's not enough coherency for terror and nausea.

And then, turning back to the mirror, Kurt takes a deep breath.

And the door opens behind him.

It's Finn's face in the reflection – Finn's and Rachel's, and he'd never have thought Finn would have had better reaction times than Rachel, but it's Finn's face that's already contorting into a rather unattractive _melange _of shock and pure fury that might have made him smile.

As it is, he speaks.

To them, and for himself.

"David Karofsky raped me."

* * *

><p>"David Karofsky raped me," Kurt repeats for the millionth time, meeting the policeman's eyes calmly for the few seconds that the man can stand to look at him.<p>

"We know," the man says brusquely, and Kurt's Dad looks like he's going to snap (or break or shatter because someone has to and Kurt refuses to) but Kurt reaches over to the chair next to the hospital bed to place a hand on his Dad's shoulder.

Burt turns to him immediately, concern and worry flickering like a shutter over the anger, and Kurt smiles.

He saw the policeman's eyes, after all, shadowed and haunted, and he knows it's not disgust or impatience or even homophobia that's sharpening the man's tone.

_Pity_.

Burt reaches out to take Kurt's right hand – the one that isn't bandaged and slung, that only hurts because Karofsky stepped on his fingers and not because he shattered the bone.

His father's hand is warm, and Kurt feels cold though he's had a shower now, after the doctors finished with him.

"He walked into the station at around 8:30," the policeman continues. "Gave himself up straight away. Says he was on 'crystal' when it happened – that's meth-"

"Methamphetamine," Kurt finishes quietly. "I know, sir."

"Right." The man seems slightly taken aback, as though Kurt isn't a seventeen year old guy who sits in the same class as addicts of every single drug ever created. "Well, he's got needle marks on his arms, which seems to show that he's been using for at least the last two weeks-"

"Two weeks ago," Finn blurts out. "That's when he got expelled, that fucking son of a _bitch_."

His voice is too loud, too sudden, and Kurt flinches.

_Bitch_.

_My name is Kurt Hummel_, he thinks to himself.

Burt's hand tightens around his in a death-grip and Kurt looks up, startled, to see his father make to stand, his face livid.

"_Finn_." Carole's commanding, softly admonishing tone overrides the beginning of what was probably going to be a scathing reprimand from Burt.

Finn looks at Kurt, their eyes meeting for a long moment, and Kurt's step-brother seems to see something in them that Kurt knows isn't there because he bites his lip and looks away, and are those _tears _in his eyes?

"Sorry, Kurt," Finn mutters.

"It's fine," Kurt says quickly, quietly, carefully not flinching again at the sound of his name (because Finn isn't like Karofsky at all, Finn is kind and warm and sort of stupid but in a hilarious and not terrifying way, and Finn's voice doesn't sound like Karofsky's, gasping his name…)

_I'm fine_.

The door opens, and a doctor – one of the ones who had performed the…tests…on Kurt, not the one who'd bandaged his arm and cleaned his cuts – walks in, a folder in hand.

"Everything's been sent off for testing," the doctor says briskly, but she belies the clinical words by smiling warmly at Kurt. "The DNA test for Mr…" her lips thin in disapproval and a little anger "…Karofsky's sperm will be in by the end of this week. As for the HIV blood tests, that should-"

"Wait." Kurt frowns. "HIV tests? What?" He looks over at Burt – but his Dad isn't meeting his eyes. "Dad, what HIV tests?"

The doctor raises a finely plucked eyebrow. "You didn't tell your son, Mr Hummel?" Burt looks down at the hand he's linked with Kurt's, as the doctor glances at the policeman. "And Evans, I expected better of you."

No one replies.

"What HIV tests?" Kurt repeats, and he's not sure who he's talking to now.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she sighs, moving forwards to place her folder on the end of Kurt's bed before sitting on the chair on the other side of his bed – the broken-arm side, Kurt's starting to think of it as. "It's not a big deal, really, Mr Hummel-"

"Kurt. Just call me Kurt."

_My name is Kurt. Not faggot, or bitch, or fairy. It's my name._

"Alright," she says, smiling at him. "Well, HIV tests are standard for any sexual assault case, anyway."

"Right," he says slowly. "But there's something more, isn't there?"

The doctor sighs again, and leans forward to put a hand on his leg (probably because his arm isn't available). Her hand is cold, even through the cloth. "The needle marks, Kurt," she replies quietly. "There's a…possibility…that he wasn't using clean needles."

Kurt bites his lip. "You mean…"

She shrugs. "Even if he wasn't, there's only a 0.67% chance that he was infected. And if he was, there's only a 1.7% chance of that being transmitted to you."

"I see…" Kurt hates math. "Um…so how much-"

"A 0.01% chance," she replies with a slight laugh. "You'll be fine, Kurt."

_I'll be fine. _

_My name is Kurt and I'll be fine._

_My name is Kurt and I was raped three hours ago._

_My name is Kurt and I might have HIV._

_I'm not fine._

_This isn't fine at all._

* * *

><p>He wants to go home, the next morning when he wakes up from dreams that are void of anything, from dreams where he wakes up on that locker room floor and can't see or hear anything, where he's stumbling around in the darkness till arms wrap around his waist from behind – big, thick arms that refuse to let him go when he kicks and screams till his throat is sore.<p>

"I want to go home," Kurt whispers to his Dad. "Please."

_I can't stand it here anymore_.

And so after only a few protests, his Dad caves in.

About five seconds after he limps through the door, Kurt wishes he hadn't.

It's not that he minds that Finn told everyone in glee, because, let's face it, 1) they were going to find out anyway and 2) they're his only friends anyway.

It's not that he doesn't love his friends, really.

But not right now. Right now, they're just too much.

But he's fine, and he's going to get through this, because he's fine – so he can stand leaning awkwardly against a wall as Mercedes almost throws herself onto him. He can stand Rachel's tears, and Tina's tears, and _oh god Santana knows how to cry? Since when?_

Quinn's the best. She just leans forward to ruffle his hair, before laughing at his instinctive reaction and hissed complaint.

All the same – by the time the girls have parted (reluctantly) and let the guys through, he's seen enough tears to last him a lifetime.

(Not that the guys are much better. If Kurt had known how much of a girl Puck really was…)

Mostly though, they're alright. Finn's looking suspiciously teary-eyed again; but Mike just smiles awkwardly at him and asks if he liked the hospital food. Sam doesn't say much, but the guilt in his eyes almost breaks Kurt's heart – as though he hadn't already done enough, as though he could have known that Finn was an idiot who once left his entire _bag _behind at school, as though he could have stopped Karofsky from getting drugge-

"Guys," Carole calls from the kitchen, "I've made some food."

The others move to the kitchen, slowly, but Kurt shakes his head as Rachel makes to pull him along.

"Not hungry," he says quietly. Rachel seems about to protest loudly, but Carole (who Kurt is admiring more and more by the minute) rushes forwards to take Rachel's arm.

"I'm sure he already ate before coming back from the hospital," Carole says gently, smiling at Kurt. "Just don't stand over here by yourself for too long, alright?"

Kurt smiles and nods, and even Rachel can't resist the subtle but insistent hints that Carole's throwing her way.

* * *

><p>Sighing and shifting his weight to his right foot again as he leans against the wall, Kurt tries to think about maybe moving to the couch when he can muster up enough energy. He's lucky, he supposes, that the fracture is small – he can't use crutches, after all, because of his broken arm.<p>

"Hey."

His eyes snap open at the sound of that familiar, beautiful voice.

"B-Blaine," Kurt stutters, hating himself slightly (_more_) as he does so. It's the first time since he said those words, staring in the mirror

_David Karofsky raped me_

That he's slipped up.

"You're here," he says softly, after swallowing heavily to make sure the words didn't come out in a rasp.

Blaine chuckles. "Yeah," he replies sheepishly, one hand running self-consciously through his curls. "Mercedes called. Um. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable-"

"No," Kurt says quickly. "No. I-I'm glad you're here."

"Good."

If Blaine had asked him how he was – if he'd done what Rachel had done, and burst into tears, or said how sorry he was – Kurt might have snapped. Might have broken.

But instead, Blaine merely smiles. It's one that carefully holds no pity; but even as Kurt meets Blaine's eyes, resigned to finding the same sadness and confusion and pain that he's found in everyone else's eyes, all he sees is affection and compassion.

Warmth.

Blaine doesn't ask "are you okay?" with watery eyes like the girls did. He doesn't talk about beating Karofsky till the 'motherfucker' is begging to die, till all his bones are shattered and, as Finn so colourfully put it, his hair bleeds.

Instead, Blaine steps forward and wraps his arms around Kurt – not tightly, and obviously careful to avoid moving the broken arm. But one arm goes around Kurt's back, fingers pressing into the small of his back to support his weight against the fractured ankle.

Blaine's arms are warm, and his breath tickles the back of Kurt's neck as he breathes.

They stand like that for a long time, and though Kurt's ankle starts to ache, he doesn't say anything, doesn't move. He doesn't want to move, ever, because this is the best he's felt in weeks, since Blaine smiled at him as he sang and Kurt thought that maybe everything might be okay…

"Kurt? Kurt-_oh_." Kurt looks up but Carole's already gone around the corner again, calling out "don't be too long!" over her shoulder.

But by then, Blaine's already stepped back – just in time for Kurt's ankle to finally give in.

He almost reaches out his left arm (his strongest arm) to break his fall, before the cast impedes the instinctive movement. By the time his right arm is outstretched, it's too late.

"Oh God, Kurt!" Blaine exclaims

"_Shh_!" Kurt hisses, agony forgotten for a moment as he panics.

Blaine freezes – but the sound of talking and the occasional short, guilt-filled laugh doesn't pause. Painfully, Kurt pushes himself up onto one knee, as Blaine wordlessly helps him stand, letting Kurt support himself on Blaine's shoulder without him having to ask.

"I'm fine," Kurt says automatically, though Blaine didn't ask.

Blaine smiles sadly. "No you're not."

Kurt's heart stops.

"I'm fine," he repeats, and Blaine exhales heavily.

"I'm _fine_." Kurt is starting to hyperventilate, and he doesn't care because Blaine has to understand that he's _not _broken – that he's _fine_, that everything's _normal_, that-

"Kurt, sweetling," Blaine says softly, voice sweet and calm and soothing, "you're not fine. You're not okay. You're not going to be fine for a while. And it doesn't matter, because no one is expecting you to be. No one is going to think badly of you, if you cry, if you scream – if you tell us all to go away and leave you alone because we don't understand."

Kurt gazes at him, wide-eyed, and he knows they're the same age but why does Blaine sound so _mature_?

One arm reaches around, to support the small of his back again, the other gripping his waist.

For a moment, the dream arises in Kurt's mind – but then Blaine leans forwards, eyes warm and softly intense.

"You aren't fine, Kurt," Blaine whispers, before leaning forwards and brushing his lips against Kurt's forehead.

"But you will be."

Kurt meets his eyes for one long, shocked, endless moment. And then, he can't see anymore through the veil of tears. And, as Blaine helps him to the couch and wraps an arm tenderly around Kurt's shoulders, pulling him closer till Kurt has no choice but to soak Blaine's shirt with salt water, Kurt cries for the first time since David Karofsky entered that locker room where he stood, sheet music in his hands.

"_Kurt? Kurt, sweetie, are you okay_?"

"_Kurt? Are you hurt_?"

He hears the voices, and he hears Blaine, calm and quiet, repeating the same words over and over again.

"He's not okay. But he will be."

Against the thin white cotton of Blaine's shirt, Kurt's lips curve upwards.

_My name is Kurt Hummel. I was raped on the 23__rd__ November, 2010, by David Karofsky, while he was under the influence of legal and illegal substances_. _I might have contracted a variety of sexually transmitted infections, including and not limited to HIV AIDS. I'm not fine. _

_But I will be._

_(Somehow.)_

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**So I'm thinking this will be around...20 chapters? I'll see how it goes/what you guys think.**

**Enjoy ^^**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

_Please don't do this-_

_(Tears pain my back hurts push away fall to floor why are you stepping on my arm please don't step on my arm it hurts it hurts)_

"_It hurts_!"

"Kurt! Kurt, are you alright?"

Kurt opens his eyes to find his Dad kneeling next to his bed as Carole stands behind him. "It hurts," Kurt sobs, clutching at his arm and gasping as pain shoots up it.

"What happened?" Burt demands, face twisted in worry.

Swiping at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, Kurt looks around – to see his sheets lying tangled, half-on the bed and half-off, his sleep shirt bunched around his waist.

"I must have rolled onto my arm," he says quietly, fighting down the remnants of terror that still haunt him even now that he's awake. "That's all, Dad. I'm fine, really."

Burt shakes his head adamantly. "You're not sleeping alone, Kurt. I'm not stupid – I know the difference between hurting yourself and yelling, and screaming when you're having a nightmare. God knows there was a lot of that when…"

_When Mum died _(_and where is Mum now when I need her where, where, oh great God, oh one who knows everything, you know nothing because you aren't there you can't be_)

"I'm fine," Kurt repeats. "Dad, it's…" He reaches out to grab his iPhone off of the bedside table, "…2am. Please, just go to sleep."

* * *

><p>Long after his Dad and Carole finally, reluctantly, go back to their room, Kurt lies in bed, flat on his back and staring unseeingly at the ceiling, trying to get back to sleep but too terrified to let it actually happen.<p>

_2:40_, his iPhone reads when he checks for the twentieth time. At least four more hours to endure till he can conceivably 'wake up' without his Dad realising he won't have slept for the rest of the night. At least four more hours – if tomorrow were a school day, he realises, heart sinking. Normally, Kurt doesn't wake till around eight on Saturdays.

_2:42_. Five hours and eighteen minutes.

* * *

><p>"Blaine?"<p>

"Mmm…hmm…wha? Who I'it…_Kurt_?"

Surprisingly fast for someone who's just woken up, Blaine pulls away his blanket and rushes to his feet. "Are you okay?" he asks urgently, and Kurt can't help but smile.

"I'm fine," he says softly. "I…I just can't sleep," he admits in a whisper, feeling ashamed for some strange reason.

Something flickers in Blaine's eyes, before he smiles warmly. "I understand," he says softly, warmly, even though his voice is deep and husky with sleepiness. "Do you want to talk?"

Kurt shakes his head, but sits down next to Blaine on the couch anyway, instinctively shuffling closer till he's almost leaning on Blaine's shoulder. Blaine glances at him and for a moment Kurt thinks he's being too intimate, too clingy – after all, Blaine's already done more than enough, insisting on staying to help out wherever he can and offering to sleep on the couch even before Burt could order him to.

But then Blaine reaches out a hand to pull Kurt down to lean against his shoulder, before wrapping his arm gently but securely around Kurt's waist.

They sit like that for a long while, till Kurt's mind sort of stops thinking (_darkness quiet warm no pain good_).

When he wakes up in his bed the next morning, staring at the ceiling, Kurt almost manages to convince himself that the whole thing was a dream.

* * *

><p>"I don't want to transfer," Kurt repeats, and he's starting to feel like a record player with three songs (<em>David Karofsky Raped Me<em>, _I'm Fine_, and _I Don't Want to Transfer_) playing over and over again till he's sick to death of his own voice and those same monotonic syllables.

His Dad, Finn, and Carole look at each other and heave identical sighs that make Kurt want to bash his head against something suitably hard.

(_Oh wait, that's already happened, haha…_)

(_I hate my head._)

"Look," he says as quietly and calmly and non-irately as possible, because he might not be fine but he's sure as hell not letting Dad know that, "I can't just run away. I'm _not _just running away. I'm not a runner, Dad – I couldn't be one if I _tried_."

As if on cue, they all roll their eyes, and Kurt swallows to hide the panic. "Come on, Dad," he tries again, staring beseechingly into his father's eyes, the way he used to (and probably still does) when he wanted a particularly expensive _something_. "Like you said, no one pushes the Hummels around. Right?"

Burt bites his lip, hard, and Kurt thinks _'score!' _with a rather limited amount of enthusiasm.

And then his Dad looks away and shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. "You're going to that Dalton school, and that's final-"

"_No_!"

_That's my voice_, a tiny, eerily calm part of Kurt's mind says softly even as he pushes himself to his feet. "I'm _not_, I'm _not_, you can't _make me leave_!"

Carole's eyes widen. Finn, ever the tactful one, has his hands to his ears as Kurt's screams echo around the room.

"Kurt, sit down-" Burt starts, ostensibly firmly but slightly softer and less certain than normal, but Kurt's own voice and that snarky _voice _meld and clash in his ears and mind and

_Oh please, you're the one screaming like a two year old child who didn't get the right flavour of ice-cream-_

"Shut _up_! Just fucking _leave _me _alone_ and let me do whatever the _fuck _I _want_!" he screams, at his father and himself, and at the pain in his ankle as he puts too much pressure on it and feels the bone grate inside his leg.

"Listen to yourself, Kurt!" his Dad shouts. "This is exactly why you need to get out of that goddamned school! C'mon, Blaine, help me out here!" he adds, turning to the corner of the room where Blaine, who had been sitting quietly on a wooden chair, blinks; the silent reminder of just how much _good _transferring to Dalton might do Kurt, if only he just listens to reason.

"No," he repeats, around the same time that his ankle bails on him (again).

_Blaine._

_Blaine who transferred to Dalton because he was being bullied._

A treacherously snarky thought that has something to do with Blaine having no idea what it's like to stick it out creeps into Kurt's mind and stays there like a particularly irritating fly that can't take a hint and just go out the open door. He knows what Blaine's going to say, without even having to hear it, because surely _Courage _is going to give up and go home when it's faced with the fact that sometimes a word isn't enough.

Dully, Kurt looks towards Blaine – but to his surprise, the other boy merely looks thoughtful.

"I…" Blaine frowns slightly. "Honestly, Mr Hummel-"

"Burt," Burt says almost instinctively, "Mr Hummel makes me sound ancient, kiddo."

Blaine smiles slightly, a will-o'-the-wisps flicker that vanishes quickly. "Burt, it's really Kurt's decision, but…" He hesitates.

"_Exactly_," Kurt snarls, staggering to the stairs before anyone can say anything. "_It's. My. Choice._"

He manages to lock his bedroom door just before Burt turns at the handle, shouting his name ineffectually as Kurt curls up on his bed, as much as he can with a broken arm and a leg and bruises everywhere.

"Leave me alone," he shouts (_screams_).

_Leave me alone._

* * *

><p>"Leave me alone," Kurt repeats dully, and maybe that's going to be added to his broken record – another monotonic song with lyrics like the title and a beat that thunders through his body – a mash-up, like they do in glee all the time. <em>Leave Me AloneI'm Fine_.

"Kurt, it's me."

That's Blaine's voice, quiet and gentle and low, and probably soothing if Kurt wasn't too agitated to be soothed by anything short of brain removal surgery. As it is, the sound of Blaine's voice triggers another whole wave of thoughts and emotions that clash in his head till, though it's useless, he puts his hands to his ears.

Or at least, tries to, till that infuriating cast pulls at his arm, sending a wave of physical pain shuddering through his body.

"Please, Kurt."

Blaine's voice breaks just slightly as he says Kurt's name, and Kurt exhales heavily, as if to expel all the pain and confusion and hurt from his body with a breath.

"Coming," Kurt says dully, as he clambers awkwardly off his bed, trying not to put too much weight on his left ankle as he limps to the door. Blaine enters slowly, almost shyly, even though it's the second or third time he's been in Kurt's room.

The last time they were here, Blaine was lying flat on his stomach, legs crossed in the air as he puzzled his way through French revision, occasionally asking the passing question to Kurt who lounged on his bed, reading French _Vogue_.

He was happy then, he thinks. He must have been, logically, because he remembers laughing at Blaine's ineptness in French and smiling at the other boy when he was positive Blaine wasn't looking.

(_What does happiness feel like, again_?)

Kurt sits on his bed again, head pressed against the wood of the headboard till he realises it feels too much like a locker room floor (_hard, what happens if I bash my head against it will it hurt_) and leans forward to prop up his pillow against the wood.

"I suppose you're going to tell me to listen to my Dad," Kurt says quietly, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to see that automatic nod of assent Blaine always gives, even when he's opening his mouth to verbally agree anyway.

"No."

Kurt's eyes fly open.

"What?" he asks, stunned despite himself, as he looks up to where Blaine stands awkwardly beside his bed.

"Um, look, I…" Pressing the tips of his fingers against his forehead briefly, Blaine sighs, biting his lip. "Can I sit down?" he asks, gesturing towards the bed.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure."

There's enough room as it is, but Kurt can't stop himself from shuffling over as far as he can, turning his shoulder so he doesn't flinch as Blaine moves to sit beside him. It isn't as though he's not noticed how slowly Blaine moves around him, and the glares Finn gets when he speaks particularly loudly.

They're treating him like something fragile, like a glass statue sitting in the back of a car that won't go any faster than 30 miles an hour for fear it'll fall to the ground and

(_shatter_)

(_I'm not shattering_)

They sit in silence, a silence that stretches on and on. Twice or thrice from the corner of his eye, Kurt sees Blaine's lips part before closing again, or being nibbled upon nervously by teeth so white Kurt half-suspects that Dalton enforces teeth-brushing every half-hour or so.

"Are you going to say anything?" Kurt finally demands. He's horrified to hear the hint of a whine in his tone, but he doesn't like silence.

Silence is when stuff

(_thrusting skin against skin pain silence-except-sounds-of-breathing-names-Kurt Kurt is my name_)

Happens.

Blaine bites his lip.

Again.

"Stop that!" Kurt's voice is slightly shrill, but that's probably not what makes Blaine's eyes widen – rather, it's most probably the hand that lashes out, hitting Blaine squarely in the mouth.

"Oh my God," he whispers (_God's not listening you learnt that_), and he can feel frustrated tears rising to well in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm" (_worthless bitch faggot fairy say you're sorry Hummel say it Kurt_)

Warm arms envelope Kurt suddenly, and he finds himself, for the second time in less than twelve hours, pressed against Blaine's shoulder, though this time he blinks back tears because there are only so many of Blaine's shirts he can ruin.

"I'm sorry-"

"Stop apologising," Blaine whispers back fiercely into Kurt's hair. "Just stop, Kurt. You don't have to apologise, remember?"

There's another long silence – or at least, an absence of talking, because Blaine starts humming, tilting his head up to let the sound echo around the room.

In his head, Kurt lets the words play:

_I'm a get your heart racing in my skin tight jeans  
>Be your teenage dream tonight<em>

That moment in Dalton, in the 'Commons' or whatever Blaine called them, seems so far away. A dream, not a memory.

But Blaine's sitting next to him, his humming just as beautiful as his singing. So it must be real

(_And my arm is broken and my ankle hurts and everything is sore and stings and my head won't shut up so that was real too fair-_)

_My name is Kurt_.

"I…I don't know," Kurt says finally, though Blaine doesn't say anything. "I know Dad wants me to transfer, I know that logically it's the best thing to do. But I don't know-"

"What you want to do?" Blaine finishes for him. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he says, and Kurt thinks he might detect a tinge of bitterness in his friend's tone.

"What do you think?" Kurt asks, lifting his head to try and see Blaine's expression – hard from this angle, but he manages.

He feels Blaine's shoulders move in a slight shrug, and sees him bite his lip slightly, again – but this time it doesn't irritate Kurt. It's sort of endearing, how nervous and hesitant Blaine is now – a far cry from the confident popular, out and proud soloist Kurt met just a month or so ago. "I…think many things. Most of which aren't important."

"…What do you mean?"

Beneath the old t-shirt Blaine borrowed from Finn for the night, Kurt can feel the vibration of Blaine's chest as he laughs slightly. "Sorry," he apologises. "That wasn't particularly helpful. But the thing is, Kurt, no one can tell you what to do. No one. Not me, not Finn, not even your Dad-"

"Try telling _him _that," Kurt mutters under his breath, and Blaine laughs again – a warm, pleasant sound – before his face becomes serious again.

"Look, Kurt…I…" He shakes his head. "There…are some things I haven't really told you."

At the look of dawning alarm in Kurt's eyes, he hastens to add, "but they're not important. What is important is that you do what you know will let you look yourself in the eye in twenty years."

"So you think I should st-"

Blaine's already shaking his head. "Courage isn't just about standing up and fighting," he murmurs.

Pulling back, Kurt frowns. "Then what?"

Blaine reaches out his other hand to ruffle Kurt's hair lightly, and for a moment Kurt feels like everything will be okay. "Do what you need to do," Blaine says gently, "to face yourself. To protect yourself. It doesn't matter what other people think – just remember-"

"_Boys_!" That's Carole's voice, probably not actually that loud, but still managing to carry down the stairs. "_Lunch is ready_!"

Arm disengaging from Kurt's waist – _damn _(_good don't let anyone touch you not again not after that_) – Blaine pushes himself off the bed. "Need a hand?" Blaine asks politely, sounding, somewhat bizarrely, like a Disney prince.

_A Disney prince who likes boys, _Kurt adds to himself. _Who's shorter than me and has hair that needs more gel than money can buy to make it look even remotely civilised. Who sings female pop songs and makes them sound better_.

"I'll be up in a second," Kurt assures Blaine quietly. "I just need some…"

"Time to think?" Blaine smiles a strange half-smile. "Sure."

He makes for the door, but stops, standing still for a moment as Kurt watches curiously. "Oh, and, Kurt?" Blaine adds, back to Kurt.

"Yes?"

Blaine turns his head towards Kurt.

"Courage is about standing up and fighting for yourself," he says. "But you know what it's also about?"

Kurt raises an eyebrow. "What?" he asks, because honestly he has no idea how Blaine's head works.

A smile touches Blaine's lips again – a proper one, this time. "It's about knowing when to walk away and live for tomorrow."

Kurt watches Blaine go, closing the door behind him, before sighing and moving slowly to lie on his bed, looking back up at that ceiling.

And he thinks, for a long time, till his iPhone message tone rings out.

_Courage_, Blaine says simply, as Kurt had known it would read when he saw who had texted.

_Courage_.

_My name is Kurt Hummel and I was raped._

_I go to a school where the best I can hope for is that people will leave me alone now that they think I've gotten what I deserve._

_Courage is about knowing when to stand up and fight, and when to walk away and live._

_My name is Kurt Hummel not _(_fag fairy whore dirty bitch_).

_Courage_.

"Alright," he says to the ceiling – _through _the ceiling – and to the world.

And then, for lack of anything better to say, Kurt adds, "let's do this," as firmly as possible.

_Let's do this_.

* * *

><p><strong>Cliffhanger! (Sort-of-not-really).<strong>

**Btw, thanks for the kind reviews :3 they're very motivating and self affirming ^^**


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